The Blacksmith's Mark
by Kaymanay
Summary: It takes him a while to figure out that she gets off on him working in the smithy.


They'd stuck with each other for nine years by the time he realised that Arya was completely infatuated with him.

He'd been knighted by the Brotherhood eight years ago, and he'd brought Arya to Riverrun four years after that once Lady Stoneheart had taken back the castle. Gendry had immediately taken up residence in the forge, despite the Lady's offer of a room in the castle. Arya, on the other hand, appeared to take up residence wherever she wanted, in spite of the large luxurious room she had been given. More often that not, it was in the forge with him. There had initially been a bit of bother about this, but Lady Stoneheart had quickly put that to rest and now, no one batted any eyelid at them.

They were together, and that's all that really mattered to Gendry. Everything was as it should be. For someone so small, she could be the most infuriating person he had ever met. But on the nights they fought and she would run from the forge, he would miss her. He would miss the comfort he found in her presence. He would miss the feeling of protection and rightness that came with her. He'd miss the warmth of her small body curled alongside him beneath his firs and the way she would always ask him silly questions she was too embarrassed to ask anyone else, just as they were falling asleep.

They had become each other's lifelines in a world that had crumbled around heads.

Arya had grown in the years since they had come to Riverrun. Admittedly, not much as she was still tiny and skinny. But she was a woman now, and there was no denying that when she came around the forge in one of her Lady's dresses. And she was a woman with women's desires and needs. That had taken him by surprise.

She had always come to the forge to watch him work. She had always sat by the window, or over in a corner and silently watched him mould the metal to purpose. It had never bothered him and he had never thought anything of it until the way she watched him had changed. It was no longer curiosity and wonder at what he was doing with his hands. It was intent and dark and seemed to speak to him of a curiosity and wonder of what else he could do with his hands. Her gaze drifted more often; over his arms and his shoulders and his back. On the occasions that she sat in the window they would flutter over his chest and to his hips and to his face. He could feel it; the path of her eyes over his skin left a blaze of fire in its wake and Gendry realised he_ liked_ it.

He wouldn't have noticed on his own, except, she had told him. Not directly, but she had.

One night she hadn't come to the forge, and Gendry had curled beneath his furs regardless. However, come the hour of the Ghost he was still awake and he knew that sleep was a lost cause to him without her weight there to settle him, and so he had left the forge in search of her. Her room was directly across from the smithy, at the top of a spire tower. Slipping into the room, he knew he would not wake her. Arya had chosen this room deliberately for the fact that the door made no sound when opening and closing, and so keeping her comings and goings her own business.

But Arya was not asleep. Arya was spread across her bed naked, save for the shift that she rubbed across her breasts. He could tell from the soot stains that it was one of his, maybe even the one he had discarded earlier that day. She was writhing and moaning, her body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and her hand working furiously between her legs.

Despite his best intentions, Gendry couldn't help but watch her. His legs had turned to lead and he couldn't move them if he had tried. Breathing had become a problem and he consciously worked to keep it as quiet as possible. Gendry had seen naked women before; he'd lain with whores and once he'd taken the maidenhead of a Farmer's daughter down by Pinkmaiden, but he had never seen anything quite like this.

When Arya came apart, it was with his name on her lips and Gendry felt as if he had been doused in cold water. The realisation of what he was seeing hit him hard and he turned to run, the door to her room having closed before she had even come down from her release.

When Gendry made it back to the forge he was trembling and hard. But in the light of his discovery, he couldn't face tackling the problem of his own arousal and chose to ignore it. Instead, he paced the floor of the smithy for hours, running his hands through his hair, pulling at it, twisting at it. He couldn't comprehend this. When had it happened? When had Arya grown up? She'd had breasts! And when had her feelings changed? Why him? Surely she realised nothing could come of her feelings. Regardless of what they had been through, she was still a Lady and he was still a Blacksmith Bastard. They Lady Stoneheart would only tolerate so much.

Sleep finally claimed him in the hours before dawn and when he arose with the sun rising he was beyond tired, weak and drained. Lifting the hammer was harder that day, and he sweated far more than he would have. By the time Arya arrived at midday bearing a plate of cold meets, cheese and bread, his tunic was off and sweat dripped down his body. That was when he first noticed the looks.

That had been three moons ago.

He shivered, remembered the heat of her eyes and the intensity. The way she took in every inch of exposed skin. The way she would chew on her lips and lick them. The way she would flush and sometimes her breathing would deepen. He liked the way she looked at him. He'd started craving it.

He had started looking as well. He looked for a hint of the breasts he'd seen the night he had gone to her room. He looked for the curve of her waist, the curve of her hips. He looked for the curve of her spine where it dipped in before popping out and curving off into her surprisingly pert backside. He looked for the curves of her face; large grey eyes, a small button nose, a small, full lipped mouth. Gendry liked what he saw.

Today she came to him just after dawn. He smelt the rose water before he turned to look at her and smirked to himself. She was playing the Lady today. When he turned she was stood in the doorway, a plate in hand. She'd donned a blue velvet dress and had allowed her hair to be washed and combed, and it fell around her shoulders in soft looking curls. Gendry's fingers itched. He had foregone the tunic and apron that day and already his body was sick with sweat, and dark with soot. Arya was already flushed.

He kept his eyes on her as she approached him, and he knew the look he was giving her was as dark and heated as the one she was giving him. He liked it when she played at being a Lady. Arya stopped before him and twisted slightly to lay the plate down. Gendry leaned towards her and breathed in her sent. Arya turned back and stilled, their faces inches apart.

"You smell like rose water, milady," he told her, his voice low. He watched her blush deepen and spread across the exposed expanse of her chest. The smile she gave him was almost shy.

"The Lady Stoneheart has more suitors arriving for me today. Up from Horn Hill this time," she told him, and something possessive coiled inside Gendry. Although the distaste with which she spat the word suitors appeased him somewhat. Arya moved away and perched herself on a stool at the end of the bench he was working on. Despite the stifling heat of the forge, he immediately missed the heat of her body so close and swayed after her before righting himself.

"So what's the plan this time?" he asked, turning back to the silver cuff he had just finished setting with stones and was polishing. Arya always had a plan for running off her suitors. She shrugged.

"I don't know. There's been so many now, and I'm slowly running out of ideas that Thoros isn't accounting for," she told him and whilst she sounded unaffected, he could see by the tension in her face that the prospect of soon having to pick a husband was starting to worry her. A large part of him hoped that he was in some way part of the reason for her reluctance to marry. "I don't see why everyone's so interested in marrying me, half the kingdom believe me to be ruined anyway." This surprised Gendry.

"Do they?" he asked, his brow lifting. Arya gave him an amused smile.

"The whole of Westeros knows about the Stark Girl and the Blacksmith, travelling with the Brotherhood Without Banners. Never apart, sharing a bed most nights." Gendry felt himself colour at the implication and tried to keep his face schooled as he gazed back at her.

"But surely they don't think-"

"Well, why wouldn't they? I was hardly an obedient child. Wilful and wild are amongst some of the nicer terms I've heard used to describe me. Never conforming to what a Lady should be. My Father always said I should have been a boy. Why would anyone believe I maintain any sort of propriety?"

"But you've never..." and suddenly Gendry was unsure of himself. She _was_ wild and wilful and completely untameable. She had always done whatever she wanted to do, regardless of what anyone thought. Especially the social hierarchy which she saw as placing the best people in the worst of situations. For all he knew, she could have. Arya snorted softly and dipped her head to look at her hands instead.

"No, I haven't," she said softly and Gendry breathed a sigh of relief. He heard Arya huff and she rose from her seat to come stand beside him. "What are you working on?" she asked and leaned over his arm to get a better look at the jewellery and her curiosity transformed to awe.

It was a silver cuff, and on it the Blacksmith's mark. A black onyx anvil below a grey tourmaline hammer, both encased within a horseshoe of blue sapphires. Arya reached out to run her fingers lightly over the mark. "It's beautiful," she breathed and Gendry smiled.

"It's yours." Arya's head snapped towards him.

"What?" Gendry chucked.

"I made it for you," He told her. "If you wanted it, of course," he added shyly. Arya nodded dumbly at him. He lifted the cuff from within it's cloth and took her hand in his soot blackened one. The cuff slipped on to her wrist easily. All Arya could do was stare. He kept her hand clasped within his own, softly rubbing his thumb across her knuckles and spreading the dirt from his hands there. It looked right on her.

"Why?" she suddenly asked, her eyes rising to his face and searching in earnest. Gendry could not find it in himself to feel embarrassed and his face turned serious.

"You know why," he all but whispered, his eyes never once leaving hers. She seemed to find what she was looking for and her lips parted, letting out a breath he felt fluttering across his neck. And then she swung up onto the balls of her feet, her hands came to rest on his shoulders and she pressed her lips to his.

It took a moment for Gendry to process what she had done, but soon he had dropped her hand. One arm came up around her waist, pulling her to him and the other came to rest at the side of her face; his thumb splayed across her cheek and his fingers in her hair. Somewhere inside him, something was singing, spreading warmth throughout his body and he knew without a doubt that he loved this wild little woman in his arms, and that she loved him back.

They kissed in earnest, open mouthed and tongues battling, never seeming able to get close enough to each other. They were breathing heavily, and Gendry could feel his chest burn with the need for more oxygen, but he didn't care. If he were to die now from kissing her, at least he would die happy.

Their happiness did not last. The sound of Arya's name drew them a part. They had just stepped away from each other when Thoros appeared in the doorway and beckoned her to greet their guests. Arya turned back to Gendry.

"I'm not going to marry a Lord," she told him matter of factly, and he smiled indulgently.

"I don't doubt it."

"I'm going to marry you," she said and then spun on her heel and rushed out the door in a flurry of skirts and dark curls which were exactly as soft as they looked.

Gendry couldn't help but smile. She definitely wouldn't be marrying any Tarlys, that was for sure. Not if she showed up wearing the cuff and covered in finger shaped soot marks.


End file.
